The Antidote
by Juliette Louise
Summary: Disillusioned with Ulfric and his uprising, Freya returns to Whiterun, a city recently devastated by the war. There she meets a group of consecrated warriors, the Companions, and finds herself swept up in more than their cause.
1. Everything Invaded

_Hey friends! Welcome to my first piece of Skyrim fiction, which is based on the Companions questline. I'm retelling the story a bit. You'll notice I've tried to gloss over the bits we're all so familiar with in the interest of avoiding redundancy, and tried instead to fill in the gaps. I've also rewritten parts of the plot (and you'll know them when you see them!) so don't expect an exact retelling of this part of the game. _

_ That said, enjoy! And let me know what you think!_

* * *

Freya woke, but not because of the sunlight. In her home, the sunlight couldn't reach her, though a small fire crackled in the fireplace, illuminating the hearth.

Sleeping indoors had become unfamiliar enough that upon waking, she was often disoriented. As though she couldn't sleep without Skyrim's rocky soil at her back, without her frigid winds whistling across whatever skin she'd been foolish enough to expose.

But no, she was in Riften. The air was different here, moist, not warm, certainly, but warmer. Green things grew here. The wind that whipped through the Rift was temperate, and threatened rain rather than tiny stinging hailstones and blinding snow.

She hadn't intended to put down roots, yet she had. She had approached Jarl Laila's steward and presented her with a truly exorbitant sum. She asked for a home in the town square, and told her to furnish it. Freya was not a domestic person and never would be, so she merely threw down coin and made other people take care of the details.

When Jarl Laila called for her only a few weeks later and presented her with a Thanehood, it had surprised her totally, and filled her with dread.

It was the third time that she'd been offered such. Jarl Balgruuf, in Whiterun, had bestowed the title on her once, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She remembered the exhilaration of the moment, she remembered the half-fought smile on Balgruuf's weather-beaten face. She felt genuine friendship for the man, then. He had an easy laugh, and a compassionate and intelligent gaze. He loved his people and he worked tirelessly on their behalf. Jarls like him were rare in a land where thrones were usually won by murdering everyone in line ahead of you.  
Later, when she pressed him into the ground with her boot, a sword poised over that tender spot where skull met spine, she thought of that moment.

"I expected better of you." He'd said later, as his attendants and disgraced Housecarl led him away, into exile. He'd spoken the words quietly, not even in anger. Just matter of fact. Those words cut her heart out. Moreso than killing her way though city guards whose faces she recognized, moreso than watching shops she'd patronized burn. Those five words made her wonder if this rebellion was worth it, if Ulfric Stormcloak was worth it.

Vignar, the new Stormcloak Jarl, had offered her her Thaneship back, before fighting had even petered out in the other districts. She'd turned him down.

Instead, Freya spent a sleepless night in Dragonskeep, in the home of her former friend, then traveled back into the green south and hid in Riften. Hid from the war, hid from the memory of half-razing Whiterun, a town she'd sworn to protect. She'd broken up a little band of drug smugglers and criminals (in truth, more out of a sense of restlessness than civic duty), and in exchange, Jarl Laila had given her stewardship of the entire town. It had shown her just how raw the wounds were.

Iona had come over sometime in the wee hours, apparently, and had brought with her fresh bread and fish from the market.

The women ate together in silence, cutting thin slivers of cheese off a wedge from the basement, and drinking watery mead.

"I'll be away for awhile, Iona." Freya said, picking at the remnants of her breakfast.

Iona wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, one eyebrow shooting up in interest.

"Indeed? Will I accompany?" Iona was her Housecarl, her sword and shield when she accompanied her into the field, and was responsible for looking after her estate when Freya went out alone-keeping the pantry stocked and the spiders and creeping vines from taking over. Iona had fulfilled both duties admirably, but it was no secret that she preferred letting bandit blood out into the ground over sweeping it.

"Not this time, friend. It's a personal matter I must attend to."

Iona was disappointed, but tried not to let it show.

"As you wish, my Thane. I'll look after Honeyside while you're away."

* * *

She started out before the sun was at its zenith, circling out around the walls of Riften, back to the stables. She bought another horse, a grey gelding whom the stablemaster informed her was called Rokkr and had a gentle disposition. Freya thanked him then tried to forget that information immediately. It was much easier to watch dragons disembowel horses who did not have names or personalities.

Freya packed light, her good sword on her back, some spares tied to the saddlebags. Enough food and mead for a few days, some healing droughts and linen bandages.

There was no resistance on the road- the Stormcloaks had made sure of that- and the weather was cool and breezy, perfect for traveling. The road (and there was, for once, a road) was well-trodden, the terrain gentle. But Freya's mood could not be lightened. She wasn't sure what she would find at the end of this well-trodden road.

* * *

The walls and ramparts of Whiterun had been left more-or-less intact by the Stormcloak siege, and the familiar city crest still fluttered in a now-colder wind. Torches cast wan light, backlighting pacing, blue-clad soldiers in guttering orange. Overhead, the stars gleamed.

She dropped Rokkr at the stable, sliding a few coins under the stablemaster's door and slinging her saddlebags over one shoulder. Her boots crunched on gravel as she mounted the small hill that led to the gates. From out of the wilderness, the song of summer insects was reaching a pulsing crescendo. She thought of how much she liked the sound, and how the air was fragrant from the woods and cooking meat. She thought of this, instead of thinking of how, a short time ago, she was beating this city's gate in while fire and arrows rained down upon its inhabitants.

A few civilians were still meandering the street in the Wind district, most of them in an advanced state of inebriation. She considered joining them, going to the Drunken Huntsman and obliterating her ability to think advanced thoughts, but then... Then she might see the wives or lovers of those who she'd slain, their children. And that, if it had to be done at all, would best be done sober.

Freya walked to the end of the boulevard, looking up at the hulking form of Dragonsreach above, her shoulder starting to ache fiercely from the weight of all her provisions. Before she even started up the stairs, she knew that she could not stay there. Would never stay there again.

A third option appeared in her mind.

The first time she'd visited Whiterun, she'd become introduced to a woman called Aela- after, of course, they'd almost been clobbered to death by a giant right outside the city gates. They'd been sitting together on the grass, cleaning gore and mud off of their weapons and armor, when Aela had told her to stop by her home, Jorrvaskr, if she needed lodgings. She hadn't taken her up on the offer at the time, but she saw no reason not to now.

Freya turned, grunting as she shifted her heavy saddlebags to her other shoulder, and started up the stairs toward the Cloud district.

* * *

Aela had given her fairly precise directions to Jorrvaskr, but Freya was still not exactly sure that she had the right place. The enormous structure before her looked, for all the world, like an upturned sailing ship, its hull rounded, its rudders pointing at the stars. It was an extreme departure from how dwellings were generally assembled in Skyrim, which was to say, as quickly and efficiently and sturdily as possible. Skyrim was not given to interesting architecture.

She entered without further preamble. It was getting later- and therefore, her arrival was presumably becoming less welcome- by the moment.

Freya closed the door behind her, and took stock of her surroundings. Before her was an enormous hall, a firepit hewn right into the ground like a trench. Behind this was a long, banquet style table the likes of which she had only seen in castles.

Freya trudged over and ran her hand over it. The once-smooth surface had been worn away by years of scrubbing and re-scrubbing. Whoever kept house here was extremely diligent.

She was just wondering whether to call out a greeting when, fortuitously, Aela herself entered, from a set of doors behind the table, opposite where Freya had entered.

Aela was much as she remembered- a tall, sturdy woman with unruly auburn hair, white skin, and eyes a color Freya had never before seen on a Human. The effect had been, and was currently, striking. She radiated confidence, pride. It was in the set of her shoulders and the motion of every step she took. Aela froze for a moment only, before recognition set it.

"Freya! So you've finally come! Do you need lodging?" She said, dropping a rucksack on the ground and circling around to clap her on the back in a rib-rattling greeting.

"I have indeed. And I do, if your offer still stands." Freya smiled and nodded, tension uncoiling inside her. She had been a bit afraid of what kind of greeting she might receive, considering how her last visit to Whiterun had gone.

Aela hauled the heavy bags off Freya's shoulder with ease and slung them across her own.

"Of course. Come, let's put your things in my quarters. Hopefully you're not too weary for a drink?"

"Never." Freya said dryly.

Aela's hospitality was startling. Skyrim's denizens, in general, were not overwhelmingly hospitable. It was probably the climate, both political and literal. She wondered if Aela's origins lay elsewhere.

She followed her host down a set of stairs and into a well lit, comfortable sub-level. Rooms radiated off from a center hallway that stretched off for a considerable distance.

"Good gods, Aela. Where exactly are we?"

Aela turned around, looking back over her shoulder for the barest instant, and smiled.

"Jorrvaskr, home of the Companions."

Freya felt one of her eyebrows raise. "And who exactly are they?"

"Ah, Tilma." Aela was saying to a tiny, elderly lady in a wool dress and apron, who had appeared from what seemed to be a pantry. "Would you please prepare a plate for my guest?"

"Of course, dear." Tilma said.

"You are hungry, yes?" Aela said. It wasn't quite a question.

"Famished. Thank you, ma'am." She said with a nod to Tilma.

The other woman laughed, waving her hand. "Please, my dear. Don't call me 'ma'am'. Makes me feel old."

* * *

While she devoured bread and cheese and cold grilled leeks, Aela explained.

"I have ulterior motives for inviting you here." She said matter-of-factly, pulling the cork of a bottle of mead out with her teeth.

"Mm?" Freya grunted, prevented from saying anything further by the fact that her mouth was very full.

"Indeed. But first I should answer your question. The Companions are warriors, shield-siblings of the five-hundred followers of Ysgramor. We fight for our honor, and, for a fee, for anyone else's. We are protectors, and assassins. My mother was a Companion. And her mother. And all the women in my family, back to Hrotti Blackblade. You could say it's in my blood. And I think..." She said, pausing to take a long draught of mead. "...It's in your blood, too."

Freya took a moment to absorb this, chewing. Since Alduin's defeat, quite a few groups had courted her, in one way or another.

"Aela, my mother was a tavern girl." She said, skeptically. If Aela wanted her to join her little band, she was going to have to do better than that.

Aela arched an eyebrow at her, snorting.

"That's not what I meant. You would be an asset to Jorrvaskr. After all, I've seen you in action. And heard about more of your exploits after that."

"What about how I betrayed Jarl Balgruuf and helped his enemy take the city? Have you heard about that one?" The bitter words left her mouth before she could restrain them. She was exhausted and half-drunk, and the very last thing she wanted at that moment was to hear more about her own 'exploits'.

She expected Aela to be angry, but she only turned her head on one side in a way that Freya found distinctly canine.

"Why did you do it, then?" She asked neutrally.

"Because I swore an oath to the Stormcloaks." She said, drawing circles on the table with her fingertip. She didn't mention that how the words of that oath had tasted like ash in her mouth even as she spoke them. Freya had limited faith in Ulfric Stormcloak, in any man. And although his ambition seemed to have less to do with creating a free and sovereign Skyrim and more to do with becoming High King, he was still a banner to unite the uprising under.

She spoken the oath, because she had to. Because the Stormcloaks had the best chance of removing Skyrim from under the boot of the Empire. She did her duty, and prayed the Ulfric would surprise her.

Aela shrugged.

"No matter. The Companions have no interest in politics, or the war."

Freya took a deep breath, then released it. She finished the mead she had been drinking in one long pull.  
Aela clapped her on the back again.

"Decide nothing now. It's late. You can meet the others in the morning."

Aela stood and walked toward the stairs, and Freya followed dutifully. Their debate wasn't over, but at that moment, the thought of a warm bed was enough to make her hold her tongue.

They wound through Jorrvaskr's long hallways until they reached Aela's door. She entered, then light flared as she lit a candle. Freya followed.

Aela's quarters were sparse in the extreme, but her bed was big enough for two. Freya stripped down to her tunic and trousers and slid in first. As a child, she'd shared a bed for years with the two daughters of a maid at the tavern, so this was familiar territory for her.

Aela lay beside her, and Freya noticed for the first time that she smelled strange. Not bad, certainly, merely unlike what she'd expected. Like pine sap and cold air, but also like fresh blood.

"Rest well, _dovahkiin_." Aela said, and blew out the candle.


	2. Wolfheart

Freya woke in darkness, disoriented for a moment. She sat up, her hand reaching for the candle and matches she'd seen Aela use the previous night. Light flared in the tiny room.

She was alone, of course, and probably had been for some hours. At one point in the night she'd woken up, started by the creaking and settling of the enormous, ancient structure above her, and discovered that Aela was gone. In fact, her side of the bed was cold. She'd wondered idly if the other woman had a secret lover somewhere that she had gone to, or merely a tendency toward sleeplessness.

Freya found her armor and redressed quickly, tying a coin purse to her belt and sliding out into the hallway. She intended to pay someone for the hospitality she'd received.

She climbed the stairs, hearing men and women talking, laughing, and the clanking of dishes. From the smell of roasting meat, she guessed that she had not yet missed breakfast. As she rounded the top of the stairs, she saw the owners of the voices, sitting at the table, passing dishes to each other. Quite a few heads swiveled toward her.

Aela stood, raising a tankard toward her.

"Ah, good. My friends, this is Freya. I hope to convince her to join our ranks."

She nodded to the assembled Companions and crossed the floor to sit at Aela's side. Tilma appeared again and brought her a plate and yet more mead.

"Freya, meet Farkas, Njada, Ria, Skjor, and Vilkas. There are more, but they are more amiable to mornings than the rest of us and have already set out for the day."

She nodded to the assembled Companions in turn. Farkas and Ria actually smiled at her, the others merely appraised her coolly.

"Any friend of Aela's is a friend of ours." Farkas said. He was a big man, and unusually dark-complected for a Nord...though his eyes also seemed subtly strange, in the same way Aela's did. Too light, with shadows under them that made him seem ill-rested, despite the apparently late hour of the morning.

"Where did you come from?" Ria asked. She seemed very young, a small boned girl with dark hair and eyes and a light voice. "I didn't see anyone new in the common quarters."

"I didn't want to disturb anyone." Aela answered for her. "I put her up in my room."

Farkas snorted, trying very unsucessfully to snicker under his breath.

Aela rolled her eyes over to him.

"Pull your mind out of the gutter, shield-brother. If you can." She growled.

"He can't." Vilkas said, waving a hand dismissively. "There's no point in asking."

It was clear that the two men were related, brothers, probably. Vilkas had the same dark hair, similar voices, the same eyes. Like Farkas, his eyes had dark circles under them, and a few days of beard growth shadowed his cheeks. He was smaller than his brother, though by no means slight, and his face had a sharper, leaner appearance.

"You should join us, Freya." Ria said in her small voice, smiling crookedly. "I would love to not be the newest among us anymore."

Vilkas' attention snapped over to her.

"_You_ do not offer membership to the Companions, whelp." He said sharply. The smile fell from Ria's face, her shoulders drawing up.

Freya felt a little burst of anger at this man who would address a timid girl in such a way.

"Whelp? Hmm." She considered. "Who wouldn't want to join an organization where subordinates are spoken to so nicely?" Freya said caustically, looking up from her roasted rabbit haunch and sucking the grease off her fingers.

Vilkas returned her gaze evenly, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

"Indeed. I'm sure you'd have no interest in the Companions. We are rough, uncouth warriors, after all. Go back to the civilized Greybeards and their books."

The hall fell silent. Freya felt her lips twisting into a smile.

"Well, you certainly are _uncouth_...though a warrior..." She clucked her tongue. "That seems less likely."

Farkas burst into raucous laughter.

"That sounds like a challenge, big brother!" He roared.

Aela grinned like a madwoman and stood so suddenly that the chair under her almost toppled.

"It does indeed." She put an hand under Freya's elbow and pulled her to her feet with startling strength. "To the yard!"

* * *

The Companions gathered in a semi-circle around the two combatants in what had turned out to be a large archery range. The day was warm and breezy. The view of Dragonsreach was impressive from the yard, sun glinting off its distant stone surfaces, its banners fluttering. Ria and Njada stood silently, Skjor and Farkas were talking and laughing amongst themselves, and Aela simply looked pleased with herself.

Vilkas, now that he was standing, seemed taller than she'd initially thought. He had half a head on her and was broader of shoulder, but lean and wiry. His armor, she could now observe, was very unusual-probably custom made and fitted. He stood, arms crossed casually over his chest, one hip jutting. He was not intimidated in the slightest, despite what he apparently knew about her.

"No magic, no other weapons, no low-blows." Aela announced, then turned to her specifically. "And no Shouts, please, _dovahkiin_. Vilkas can be an ass, but he does have his uses and I don't want him turned to mush."

Vilkas sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Your confidence in my durability is very flattering, shield-sister." He said dryly.

"Alright," Aela said, pointedly ignoring his last comment. "Begin!"

Aela stepped quickly out of the way, but neither of them moved immediately. Vilkas' greatsword was drawn, but he wasn't in anything like a fighting stance. He was just...looking at her. He was goading her, silently, into taking the first move.

Finally she did, lunging toward him. He turned her aside. Her momentum carried her forward and almost into him, and in the last moment, when he thought he'd simply pin her arms to her sides, she ducked out of his grasp and away.

Vilkas adjusted quickly, putting his sword across hers with bone-jarring force. He had correctly assessed the situation in one move. She was faster, but he was stronger. He couldn't pin her down, but he could probably knock the blade out of her hands.

But Freya had been tangling with much bigger foes for quite awhile now. She let the strength behind his blow push her sword down and away but didn't stop moving, circling back behind him for another try. She tried to tap him on the back with her blade but he stepped out of the trap.

His greatsword came down toward her once, twice, and she countered, the joints of her wrists and shoulders protesting almost audibly. She stepped out of the third volley and tapped him on the ribs with the flat of her blade.

"Point!" She heard Farkas' voice say from the circle. "One to the lady. Come on, Vilkas!"

"I thought a _Companion_ would know how to watch his own flank." Freya commented dryly.

Vilkas stepped forward, swinging from the left, then letting the motion carry him through to cross swords from the right. He connected with her blade, and as he did, his boot shot out and pulled one leg out from under her. She went ungracefully onto one knee but didn't falter completely. He leaned into her, putting raw strength and his superior weight into their crossed blades. Apparently he had both power and finesse.

"You'd be prettier if you talked less." He observed mildly.

The muscles in her arms visibly trembling, she pushed herself laboriously back up into a standing position, their faces now very close together. He smiled, pleased with himself. She headbutted him.

"And _you'd_ be prettier if your breath wasn't so rank." She said, shaking out her sword hand while he recoiled, snorting blood.

"Oooh!" Farkas said. "Ouch. Is that a point?"

Vilkas shot him an acidic look, wiping his face with his glove, which only served to produce a smear of blood across one cheek.

"This isn't a debate, dear brother." He said dryly.

She came at him again, but this time he was ready. She saw what was happening, but it was too late.

He stepped out of the blow and kept moving, coming around to sweep her feet out from under her with the flat of his blade.

Freya landed hard, the wind knocked out of her, but rolled away before he could touch his sword to her chestplate. She scrambled to her knees and he was right there, sweeping his blade sideways, hoping to come in at an angle too awkward to counter. She ducked under his sword and rolled again, finally back up on her feet.

He held his blade high and came at her, but instead of parrying put her armor-plated shoulder into his stomach with as much strength as she could physically muster.

It was like colliding with a brick wall. She heard a rush of air escape from his lips and he bent double, but didn't go down. His hand closed around hers, on the hilt of her sword, holding her fast, allowing her motion to move her past him and back into an upright posture, her sword now harmlessly pointed at the sky. He tapped her on the side with his blade, now in his off-hand, and released his hold on her wrist.

"That's quite enough!" An unfamiliar voice thundered.

She turned to see a man emerging from the doors of Jorrvaskr. He was old but powerfully built and well armored, with long silvery hair that put her in mind of the Greybeards. He descended the stairs and approached them, scowling.

"Break it up, you oafs." He said, shooing at the semi-circle, who obediently dispersed. Once the other Companions had moved outside of hearing range he turned to her.

"And you are...?" He asked her.

"Freya." She gulped air, still shaking out her sword hand. He turned away from her, over to Vilkas, who was clutching his side.

"And Vilkas, why are you and this woman trying to kill each other?"

There was a beat of silence.

"I wish to join the Companions." She said, and the older man turned again to look at her, surprised. "Vilkas, here, was merely testing my meddle." She said.

"Is that so?" He said skeptically, then turned back. "Well, Vilkas, what say you concerning Freya's meddle?"

Vilkas locked eyes with her, and to her surprise, nodded.

"She deserves a chance."

"Than a chance she shall have. Now go back inside and finish your breakfast. Tilma's fretting."

"Yes Harbinger." Vilkas said, giving the other man a slight bow. The other man turned on his heel and went back toward the building.

"Incidentally," Vilkas said conversationally, when they were alone. "'Whelp' is traditional."

"Excuse me?" Freya said, now clutching her elbow. How could a man house so much strength in such a wiry, compact body?

"You were offended that I called Ria 'whelp'. But hopefuls and new recruits to our group are always called 'whelps'. It's traditional. If you want to join us I recommend you get used to it." He said, then swept past her and went back inside.


	3. Dreamless

_Thank you for your kind reviews, everyone. Now, a challenge- bonus points for whomever can place these chapter titles!_

* * *

He wasn't exactly sure why Freya had suddenly changed her mind, or why she'd lied to Kodlak, and he didn't care. He was just happy that he didn't have to explain to their Harbinger that he'd been goaded into a fight with a person he'd been acquainted with for only a few moments.

His brother found the whole situation extremely amusing.

"It was technically a draw." Farkas said, foot propped up on the opposite knee, at Vilkas' table, watching his efforts at cleaning himself up. Though he'd washed most of the blood off his face, more continued to flow. He was currently trying to stuff a piece of cotton up one nostril as gently as possible. Finally Farkas took pity on him and leaned in to help.

"She's good." Vilkas said, leaning back and silently willing his nose to cease it's theatrics. "She's very good. Though I'd wager she didn't learn young. And certainly not from professionals."

"I like her." Farkas said.

Vilkas sighed. His brother was kind and trusting to a fault. He welcomed every new recruit into the fold because he saw no reason not to.

Unfortunately, things were a bit more complicated for Vilkas. The Companions were his family, his life, his destiny. He felt the weight of history and honor behind the group, an unbroken lineage of shield-siblings, back into the murky past. Every new warrior they accepted threatened that legacy. If they were to bring the wrong person into the Companions, give them the influence and training that only they could give...

"You worry too much. Trust Aela and Kodlak."

Vilkas leaned back into the wall, sighing.

"It's not them I lack trust for." He said.

He would have trusted any of the Companions with his life. That went without saying. Kodlak had been the nearest thing they'd had to a father, in fact. He'd demonstrated a level of patience that not many would have, when saddled with two ill-mannered, ragtag soon-to-be orphans.

Vilkas' memory was long, and those first few years with the Companions were still fresh. The hall had seemed so big, and strange, and so drafty. Kodlak put the brothers up in a room together rather than leaving them to fend for themselves in the common quarters. Tilma, whose own children were grown even then, would bring them picture books and sweets and tell them stories about Ysgrammor and the first 500.

Even so it was not an easy childhood. As far as he knew, they were seven years old when they came to Jorrvaskr, and their training began immediately. Skjor and Kodlak were the mildest of the warriors in residence at the time, and took it upon themselves to teach them. They never spoke to or even saw other children, for the most part, and when they did, the others were afraid of them. The brothers had only each other. Most of their time was spent trying to avoid the older men, until they were finally big enough to hold their own in a fight.

He was a man now himself, but Tilma still occasionally stopped by his room with a sweet roll, and Skjor could still outshoot him on the archery range. Jorrvaskr was still huge and drafty and ancient, but now it was home. The Companions were his home. His life. His cause. And he would continue to be fiercely protective of them.

There was a soft rapping at the door.

"Vilkas, a word please." Kodlak's muffled voice said. It was not a question.

Farkas cringed silently, then cleared his throat and stood, dusting off his trousers.

"Good luck." He said, then turned and exited.

* * *

Vilkas stood outside under a clear night, an arrow already strung, merely appraising the target. The moon was full, but even so, Human eyes could not have seen the straw dummy across the yard. He lifted his bow, then drew the arrow back until its fletchings almost grazed his lips. The taught gut string whispered past his ear as he released it, followed a moment later by the solid sound of an arrow hitting its mark.

He heard Aela approaching, but didn't turn toward her.

"Did you find your fugitive?" She said, by way of greeting.

He fitted another arrow.

"Yes. How long have they been gone?" He asked her, drawing the bow smoothly.

"Two days." She said.

Another arrow found its mark.

He'd been gone for more than a week, tracking an escaped convict through the forests of the Rift. When he returned, Freya and Farkas were absent, sent on her test by Kodlak.

"The Pale is crawling with Silver Hand." He said, glancing up at the moon.

Aela crossed her arms over her chest, putting her head on one side.

"Now, now, Vilkas. Farkas can take care of himself. And our Freya is a professional slayer of _dragons_."

He let another arrow fly.

"I still don't like it." He said.

Freya had done well so far. Admirably, in fact. She got on well with the notoriously gruff Eorland. She'd been taking instruction from Farkas in the yard. She'd even been in the field already, recovering a kidnapped girl and returning her to her worried (and wealthy) family in one piece.

For the most part they'd avoided each other after the fight in the yard. He'd asked her (at Kodlak's urging) to take his sword to Eorland for sharpening. In almost three weeks, this had been the extent of their interaction.

He pulled another arrow back.

"You look terrible." Aela murmured, eyes downcast, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Thank you." He said dryly, glancing up at the bright moon.

"You could go out into the woods, to the south. No one lives there but bandits and..."

Vilkas held a shaking hand up.

"I took an oath, Aela. I know you don't understand, but-" He had just started when Ria burst through the doors.

"They're back! The _dovahkiin_ and Farkas!" She cried breathlessly.

Vilkas and Aela's eyes met for the barest instant, then they were thundering across the yard, and back inside.

They crossed the threshold just as a raucous cheer was going up. Freya and Farkas hadn't even dropped their packs, yet. They were both, in fact, still covered in blood and dirt and even a few tenacious cobwebs. Freya pulled off her helmet, grinning.

He realized he'd never seen her smile before.

Farkas laughed as he saw him coming across the room.

"Big brother! Did your fugitive give you a good run for your money?"

Vilkas snorted.

"Child's play. They don't make criminals like they used to." He said, smiling now himself, and clasped his brother's hand, pounding him on the back. "Still mostly in one piece? Did you run into any Silver Hand?"

Vilkas' smile dimmed a little.

"See for yourself. Shield-sister!" He said, and Freya's attention snapped over to them. She approached, reaching out to shake his hand.

Blood stood out in her light hair, which was still plastered down to her head from where her helmet rested. She had a fine bruise spreading out from under her jawline, and a split lip.

Their eyes met, and her smile became a little more subdued. She was a little more formal around him than the others- polite, but not friendly. He shook her hand. She licked her lip, and her tongue lingered over the split.

"Show Vilkas." Farkas said, and Freya pulled a bundle down off one shoulder. She put it on the table, then unwrapped it to expose seven slim blades. Very distinctive blades.

"Gods. Seven? How did you...?" Vilkas started, then stopped, abruptly knowing how. His eyes fell on the woman, and she simply stared back evenly, her smile completely missing now. Gods help them. She knew. She'd seen everything.

Vilkas realized that Aela had put her hand on his elbow. Ria and Njada were only a few paces away.

"Not now." Aela said evenly, close to his ear.

Finally, he nodded, looking away from Freya at last. He tried to tamp down a sensation of panic, then anger. Gods help them all, she knew. There were Companions who had lived at Jorrvaskr and gone to their graves without ever uncovering what she had witnessed.

Farkas had just revealed, to an outsider, the most closely guarded secret in the 4,000 year history of their order.

* * *

Vilkas barely remembered her induction ceremony. The moon was pulling him in a thousand different directions. His bones ached. His hands tingled. He was aware of too much- men in the Drunken Huntsman shouting at each other, the smell of the cool, dark woods on the wind. He felt every heartbeat skitter across his skin. He'd let Farkas' revelation unbalance him and now he was finding it difficult to rein himself back in.

When she pulled Kodlak's sword from the ground and offered it back, ritualistically offering her service to the Companions, Vilkas spoke the words but his only thoughts were on what she knew.

Later, he sat sandwiched between Farkas and Skjor, while his brother regaled them with tales of their newest member's fighting prowess. Mead flowed freely but he didn't partake. He felt volatile enough sober. This had always been the way. Farkas enjoyed himself in the present, while Vilkas worried about every future possibility.

And, of course, his brother had just experienced the blessed relief of letting the moon take him. Tear him apart and build him anew. There was nothing in this life that compared. Not sex, not drink, not letting an enemy's blood out into the ground.

The party wound down, eventually, with Kodlak and the newest members leaving first. Then Skjor took a very inebriated Farkas by one elbow and led him back downstairs to collapse. Finally Aela, Freya and himself were alone, sitting before a low fire and a table full of empty bottles.

He went over to join them, sitting and putting his elbows on the table, drumming his fingers on the wood.

"So," Aela started, uncorking yet another bottle with her teeth. The woman could, when she put her mind to it, _really_ drink. "You've discovered our secret."

Freya took a deep breath, then released it.

"I have indeed." She said. "You, Farkas, Skjor, Kodlak, and Vilkas."

"Did he tell you about the rest of us?" Vilkas asked, surprised.

Freya shook her head, and he saw that there was still blood in its length.

"No. He didn't have to."

"This has been our secret for a very long time." He said sternly. "Since you've encountered the Silver Hand already, I assume I don't have to impress upon you how zealously we must guard it."

Freya's gaze was solemn. Her pale eyes met his, then unfocused, moving through him, and, he suspected, into her past.

"I've sworn an oath." She said, finding him again. "Your secrets are mine."

Finally, he nodded once, curtly.

Aela stood, squeezing his shoulder before she wandered toward the stairs.

"See? Easy." She said, now shouting up from below. "Freya, if you have questions, Vilkas is your man. He's the closest thing we have to a scholar. Goodnight."

The door closed. Freya let out a long breath.

"Don't be angry with him." She said. She could only have been talking about Farkas. "He told me about the pact you made. But if Farkas hadn't done what he did, we would have been overwhelmed. That tomb would have been ours."

"I know." He said. He didn't tell her that, had they been overwhelmed, the Silver Hand would never have simply killed them. They would have taken them somewhere and extracted as much information as they could out of them, before finally allowing them to die.

She didn't speak for awhile, looking down at the table. Then she looked up, through him again, into the past.

"Can I tell you a story?" She asked. Whatever he had been expecting her to ask him, it hadn't been that.

"If you wish to."

"The first time I saw a dragon killed, I was just outside Whiterun. It was the size of a building, all sleek, perfect grace. I felt its voice, heard its words, though I didn't yet understand them. It was...from someplace outside of time, a god, or near enough to one. It was beautiful. Amazing.

I was in a tower with a dozen soldiers, firing arrows at the thing. Can you imagine? Arrows? At a beast of that size?" She snorted. "Finally we grounded it. It seemed to take forever. A thousand tiny wounds finally took their toll. I ran down from the tower and met it face to face."

She stopped, considering. Her skin and hair looked even paler by the firelight, the blood that still stained it seeming darker. The wan light cut shadows into her face, under the bones of her cheeks and around her light eyes. She passed her tongue over the split in her lip again.

"I killed him eventually. It took a very long time. I did it because I had to, not because I wanted to. In fact, everything in me was telling me to stop. To let such a magnificent creature live. If it hadn't threatened Whiterun I would have. But then...when it finally succumbed, something happened."

She paused again, searching for the words.

"His soul...the dragon's soul...entered me. I have no words to describe it."

The fire crackled. He waited, rapt.

"Now, sometimes I dream of the dawn of the world, of flying over new mountains, through the frozen air. I see the endless white wastes of the Pale rushing past, icy seas. I am him, sometimes, fighting other _dovah, _far above Tamriel. I hear the _thu'um _and now...I understand."

She stretched her bad shoulder, looking pained for a moment.

"So trust me, Vilkas, when I tell you that I know what it's like to have another spirit inside you." She said, sadness on the edge of her low voice. For a moment, he thought tears would appear, but they didn't.

Vilkas nodded, steepling his hands on the table in front of him. He was uncomfortable, but wasn't sure why.

"It's the worst when the moon is full." He offered. "I can be very... It's very difficult. Aela doesn't understand the pact that my brother, Kodlak, and I made. She doesn't know why I won't simply go out into the woods and let the moon take me."

It was the loss of control that terrified him. He was afraid that eventually, he wouldn't come back. Every man fought with his inner demons. But for him, the fight was a little more literal.

"That's your choice. She doesn't need to understand it, only to respect it." Freya said.

He nodded, clearing his throat.

"You should rest." He said.

"I couldn't agree more." She said, smiling politely. Freya stood slowly, carefully, probably still sore from her recent expedition. She began to walk toward the stairs, then turned back again.

"Vilkas...do you ever see the wolf? In your dreams?" She asked him. He could tell from her tone that she saw nothing wrong in asking him this.

"I don't dream." He said, regret edging into his voice. "Not anymore."


	4. Darkness and Hope

_Hello again, friends! This is where I start to deviate from the game's story line just a little, mostly so as not to weigh the narrative down too much. Also, hooray for JessicaJ, who figured out that I'm poaching all my chapter titles from a wonderful Portuguese metal band called Moonspell. Run out and listen to them immediately! _

* * *

Finally the moon lost its furthest sliver, and the fever in his blood broke.

Normally at this time of the lunar cycle he would seek out new jobs; travel afield without needing to wonder where he'd be when the urge to crawl out of his own skin inevitably hit him. But there wasn't much work to be had lately-surprising considering the state Skyrim was in. Even Ulfric had seemed to pause in his conquest. The whole land seemed to be holding its breath.

Vilkas spent most of his time in the yard, generally with his brother, sparring.

"...And then I swung my warhammer, and the stupid man ran right into it! With Talos as my witness, I swear he flew through the air like a kerchief on a strong breeze, then hit the far wall with this horrible sound-"

Vilkas held up a hand, grimacing.

"I believe you. No need to go on." He said, hoping that his brother was not about to describe this sound.

"-it sounded like when Tilda tenderizes tough meat, and she hits it with that wooden mallet-"

"Please, Farkas." Vilkas said mildly. "Less talking, more fighting."

Farkas was not, by nature, a boaster. Generally he only started telling tales when there was a lack of genuine fighting to be done. He drove his greatsword into the ground and sighed, wiping his brow.

"Eh, I'm tired of this." Farkas declared. "Maybe I'll go to the Huntsman."

Vilkas rolled his eyes, pushing his own sword into the ground and leaning on it.

"Just make sure you return from the Huntsman under your own power. I strained my back carrying your drunken carcass home last time."

Farkas pulled his sword out of the ground and stalked off, waving dismissively.

"That was a special occasion." He said, his voice coming back to Vilkas on the wind.

And with that, he was more or less alone. Kodlak was somewhere, probably in the library downstairs. Ria was, last he'd seen her, helping Tilma in the kitchen. Aela, Skjor, and Freya were out on some secret business of Aela's devising. Njada and Athis had stopped trying to kill each other for long enough to escort some nobleman's teenaged son to Winterhold. Torvar had joined Vignar in Dragonskeep.

Vilkas retrieved his sword, sighing. It was as good a time as any to catch up on his reading.

He crossed the yard, his footfalls silent on the soft grass. Night was just falling, and the wind that rustled his hair smelled cold and clean. Tilma would doubtless be gathering up ingredients for cider soon, as she generally did at this time of year. The air would turn colder soon, Skyrim balanced in that perfect spot between the sometimes overbearing summer and the brutal winter. Lost in thought, he pushed open the door, and the smile that had just started to form on his face dissolved.

Aela was on the ground, sitting against the door, hands in her hair. Remants of dried blood stood out against her gleaming armor, and covered her bare forearms to the elbows. Her hair looked singed in places, and a dark bruise was forming in one eye socket.

Freya stood over her, leaning into the wall with one hand, the other on her ribs. She was breathing hard and her cheeks were flushed, but her lips were pale. Her eyes snapped over to him.

They'd left with three and returned with two.

"By the Divines! What happened? Where's Skjor?" He demanded, running to Aela's side. When her eyes found him, he knew the answer to at least one of his questions. He slid onto his knees, taking one of her hands in his. It was cold. Her eyes closed, her head falling back to rest against the door.

"Let's get her downstairs." Freya said from above, her voice a little rough. He looked up at her, searching her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed, her breath still coming between parted lips.

Finally he nodded, and together they carefully hauled Aela to her feet, then looped her arms over their shoulders.

They nearly carried her down the stairs. Vilkas pushed the doors open with his boot.

The hallway was silent and darkened, lit only by a few candles that cast long, sputtering shadows.

"Quickly." Freya gasped, her face too pale. She was close to fainting herself. What in Nine Hells had happened?

They drug Aela into her chambers, and he closed the door behind them. They lowered her slowly onto her bed. Freya carefully helped her slump over onto one side.

"It's her left leg." She said.

He nodded, very carefully grasping both of Aela's ankles and moving her legs onto the bed. She rolled onto her back slowly, hissing.

"We found a Silver Hand encampment." She said tautly as he pulled off her right boot. "Skjor went ahead, scouting."

His hands went to her left boot. Her eyes flickered over to him, and she nodded.

"I thought he was just inside but-oh, gods-_dammit_!" He slid the boot off successfully, and was not very happy with what he found inside it. Her lower leg was swollen and so bruised that it was almost uniformly purple.

"There were so many of them. More than I ever would have thought. Thirty, maybe forty. We spent two days routing them, and every moment I expected to see Skjor melt out of the darkness. But..."

No tears appeared, but Aela's face flushed, her jaw tightened.

"But he was already dead." She said, voice flat. "Had been for some time."

There had always been rumors that Skjor and Aela were lovers. At that moment, he knew that it was true.

He turned to Freya, who'd been silent this whole time. She didn't meet his eyes.

"I'll get her something for the pain. Then I'll go for the healer. Are you alright?" He asked her.

She nodded, still avoiding his glance.

* * *

He returned with the Priestess of Kyne. Freya was gone. He left Aela's rooms as the healer started to reset her broken bones. Then he went out into the woods and gave himself to Hircine and the Moon.

* * *

When Vilkas came back to himself, two days had passed, and the sun was just setting on a third. He scrambled, naked, through the damp brush and thorn bushes until he found where he'd stashed his armor.  
He didn't feel remorse for breaking his oath yet. That would come later, after the rawer emotions had burnt off of him.

As he approached the walls of the city he saw her, sitting by the road, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. A tiny fire burned by her side. The shoulder plates of her armor and her long pale hair picked up the light. When Freya saw him she stood, kicking out the fire.

"We found documents in Gallows Rock. There's Silver Hand in a cavern called Redoran's Retreat. Do you know it?"

He hadn't been sure about her when she appeared at Jorrvaskr. He'd wondered about her motivations. He wondered how a woman who'd never even heard of the Companions could understand their society. He didn't think she would feel the call of Ysgrammor and a hundred generations of his warriors the way he did.

He had apparently been wrong.

"I know it." He said.

* * *

They walked in silence, their footfalls silenced by the soft earth, a cold breeze moving past them, carrying the smell of loamy soil and, more distantly, blood.

"We're getting close." He murmured.

Little bands of those with the Blood were scattered all over Skyrim. Some of them were cultists, devotees of Hircine, who had passed the Blood down generation to generation. Others were warriors who craved the power of it. Still others were merely victims, survivors of attacks by the other groups, who had been forced into seclusion by their curse.

The Silver Hand hunted them all. He could smell their blood on the wind as they approached the hillside.

When the moon was high in the sky, he found the door.

They exchanged glances. Freya nodded, grey eyes narrowed. They drew their weapons, and he opened the door.

A wave of cold, damp, fetid air hit them as they stepped inside. Vilkas, his senses still so painfully sharp, almost wretched. The chamber was lit only by guttering torches, but he could see the indistinct forms of what had created that smell-corpses, some in their wolfen forms, some human. Some were laid out on stone slabs, others simply in heaps. The cavern reeked of pain and fear and death on a plane he could only seem to access in the few days after he changed, a place just on the edge of conscious perception.

"What is this place?" Freya whispered, and an arrow whistled past his ear.

They were in motion instantaneously. Freya fell away, ducking behind a stone slab and moving toward the archer. Another Silver Hand appeared out of the darkness beyond, roaring, greatsword raised. Vilkas met him, their blades crossing, hoping fervently that Freya had already taken out the archer.

"Your left!" She cried.

He looked up just to time see a Dunmer slide out of the shadows. He ducked under the Nord's greatsword and the Dunmer's dagger missed him by the barest margin. Falling, he drove his booted foot into the side of the Nord's knee with as much strength as he could, just as Freya's blade found the Dunmer. The Human dropped, howling, and he made quick work of him, but of course there were more.

Wheeling around, Freya met the first one head on, her sword raised. Vilkas scrambled back onto his feet and covered her flank, their backs touching. Two more fell on him. Two more appeared from the dark cavern beyond.

Everything dropped away except for Freya at his back, and their enemies' onslaught. His pulse sang in his ears.  
Thirty years of training and instinct took him over completely. There was no fear, no anger, not any more.  
Freya roared and another Silver Hand fell, no longer a danger to the Companions, or anyone else. They fought together, falling into a primal rhythm. She covered his slower movements with her agility, he countered when she could not match their opponents' strength.

And before he knew it, the cavern was silent again.

"Godsdammit." Freya said, panting, bent almost double, clutching her ribs again. She pulled her helmet off, dropping it. It hit the floor of the cavern with a hollow sound.

"Shield-sister?"

"I'm alright." She gulped, straightening up.

Vilkas wasn't so sure, but at the moment there were more pressing concerns.

"I'm going to search the cavern."

She nodded.

A cursory look around revealed no hidden enemies, but also no further correspondence from other Silver Hand cells. Only piles of the dead.

When he returned Freya was at the door, her sword cleaned and sheathed, her helmet slung across her back.

They stepped together out into the cold, clean air. After the damp stench of the cavern it felt like a blessing. He pulled off his helmet, so that the breeze could rustle his sweaty hair. Cicadas sang. From somewhere, an owl hooted. Overhead, the nearly-full moon presided over all.

"I saw a clearing just over this rise." He said, pointing. Freya seemed to know what he was getting at, and didn't object to stopping. That was not a good sign.

When they entered the clearing she sat hard on the ground, ashen-faced. She pushed sweaty hair off her brow.

"It's only bruising." She said, moving to unbuckle her cuirass.

Vilkas knelt beside her silently and helped her peel the chestplate off.

"I took a tincture and bound them, but..."

He rolled up the linen tunic as far as modesty would allow, then carefully untied the cloth wrappings that encased her torso.

"You really don't have to nurse-maid me. I'll be fine in a moment." She said.

Vilkas looked up at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Really?"

"No." She conceded. He snorted.

Freya hissed in pain, wincing at his barest touch. He whispered an apology, working the last of the bindings free. The whole half of her ribcage was green and purple, and when he touched her, as gingerly as he could, her skin was burning hot.

"Nine Hells, shield-sister, your ribs are in pieces. What were you thinking, coming out here tonight?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"I did what needed to be done, did I not? We had to move quickly, before they heard what happened at Gallows Rock."

"That's not what I meant. You could have sent Farkas, or Njada-"

She shook her head, leaning back against the trunk of the tree.

Sighing, he unbuckled his sword belt, unthreading his scabbard and pouch. He dug around for a vial of the healer's tincture. He should have been frustrated by her stubbornness, he instead he found himself understanding the desire to see things put right. He would never have let another Companion avenge Skjor.

"Kyne Herself couldn't help you if you won't rest and let this tincture re-knit your bones. We'll stay here for awhile, and when we get back to Jorrvaskr, I don't want to see you doing anything more strenuous than lifting a flagon to your mouth. For at least a week."

Freya gulped down the tincture, wincing at the taste. She regarded him evenly, a half-smile pulling one corner of her lips up.

"You have a very practiced scolding voice, shield-brother." She said.

He smiled, laughing quietly under his breath.

"Well, you've met Farkas. He requires a lot of scolding."

Her eyes fluttered closed as the tincture settled into her, and he set back to work, rebinding her torso.

"Has Kodlak caught wind of any of this?" He asked conversationally.

"I don't think so." She said. "He knows Skjor was killed and Aela was injured, both by the Silver Hand. I don't think he knows where I've gone. And he probably thinks you're still in the woods."

"And so I am." He sighed, carefully repositioning her cuirass and buckling her back into it. "I don't like deceiving the old man, but sometimes...well, Skjor needed avenged. And so did Aela."

He wrapped his sword belt around her, just under her breasts and again a hand's width further down. It wasn't perfect, but it would hold her together for the journey back to Whiterun.

He leaned back against the tree with her, their shoulders touching.

* * *

They walked back together along the road. He told her of the time Farkas attempted to get into a bar brawl with most of the Battle-Born clan and Skjor had to save him from (in his own words) having "the stuffing beaten out of him". Then, the time that Skjor convinced Kodlak to bail Njada out of jail when she'd been caught poaching the Jarl's deer. And all the months and years Skjor spent with his awkward, gangly younger self, patiently teaching him how to not impale himself on his own greatsword.

They climbed the steps to Jorrvaskr as dawn was threatening. Inside, the hall was silent and empty, the fire having burned down to the coals. Downstairs, not even Tilma's door was open. It seemed that they'd successfully avoided detection.

"Thank you, Vilkas." She said, as they stood outside the Whelps' Quarters. She reached out her hand and he took it, nodding.

"Thank _you_..." He said, "...Freya. You've done the Companions a service."

She gave him a genuine smile, then, albeit a tired one, and disappeared into the darkness of the room beyond.


End file.
